


Trouble in Paradise: The Rose & the Thorn

by quills_at_dawn



Series: Witcher Shorts [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bachelor AU, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Game Shows, Multi, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn
Summary: Bachelor in Paradise AU, Emhyr's POVStarring:Emhyr var Emreis as The MogulCiaran aep Easnillien as The InfluencerGeralt of Rivia as The GigoloYennefer of Vengerberg as The Career WomanFoltest of Temeria as The Prince CharmingMaria Louisa La Vallette as The Trophy WifeMorvran Voorhis as The MetrosexualTriss as The Girl Next DoorVernon Roche as The SuitSaskia as The Adrenaline JunkieIorveth as The ActivistAlso featuring,Dandelion as The HostVilgefortz as The Executive Producer





	1. Into Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where this idea came from.   
Loosely follows the Bachelor in Paradise/Love Island/Temptation Island formats.   
Enjoy! 
> 
> For the trope bingo square: AU: Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on the Bachelor in Paradise/Love Island/Temptation island format. For those who don't know it, it's an elimination-style competition with two teams, members of which have to pair up to make it through to the next round, those who don't find a partner are replaced by new contestants. You can find a more detailed explanation of the game format [here](https://www.insider.com/what-is-bachelor-in-paradise-2016-8#the-bachelor-in-paradise-is-the-perfect-filler-between-the-bachelor-and-the-bachelorette-1). 
> 
> I still don't know where this fic came from. 

**— INTO PARADISE —**

Dandelion, the show’s host, turns to me, his attempt to look serious and compassionate utterly undermined by his loud puce shirt.

“So Emhyr, what made you decide to give love another chance after your heart was so devastatingly broken last time you were on the show?”

I’d forgotten what these shows are like. I have to unlock my jaw to force myself into a pleasant smile.

_Why am I here? _

How can there have been a time when this ever seemed like a good idea? Not just this, being marooned on a beach for weeks with beautiful idiots and strangers wearing nothing but bits of string tied together. But all of it. Was my public image really such a PR disaster that this was going to improve it? Was there no other way of making me seem more human than setting up a chain of events that saw me jilted practically at the altar?

As Dandelion and I make our way down the many steps that lead to the beach, I offer a nonsense about love and hope being near neighbours.

The twit laughs and agrees.

When he finds time to step off the franchise’s constant carousel of _Eligibles_, _Eligiblettes_ and paradise islands, Dandelion — as preposterous in manner and dress as his stage name suggests — is also a crooning singer-songwriter. The great question of whether his greatest hit is about religious rapture or oral sex has never been definitively answered and this ambiguity suits his main occupation perfectly.

He finishes droning, wishes me all the best then actually pats me on the back before heading off.

The first to approach me is my second-in-command, Nilfgaard Inc.’s CCO, Morvran Voorhis, looking pleased as anything. His participation is no surprise at all given they needed my approval for it.

Of course they wanted him. On paper he’s perfect, even more eligible than I am by virtue of being some dozen years younger, but I was sure there’d be a conflict of interest or a breach of company employee rules or something. In the end the lawyers okayed it and so I couldn’t refuse without making it look personal. I value Morvran highly, both within the company and outside of it. And besides, he’s owed vacation time.

He introduces the two people he’s with — I vaguely remember them from their seasons or mixers, they’re just cannon fodder, picked for looks or eccentricity.

After the introductions, they leave us.

Morvran glances down the beach where a couple is strolling then turns back to me, eyes sparkling.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Morvran’s never been on any of the shows and his connection to me is the reason he’s here at all and though he’s clearly been here long enough to introduce himself and make friends, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.

I’ve spoken to him about Yen. An established professional, one of Lodge Consulting’s best, who earns a comfortable living, doesn’t want a family but would like some eye candy to come home to and arm candy for when she goes out. I suspect her of being older than she looks, which might explain her bag of rare and expensive lotions.

We keep getting thrown together at mixers because clearly somebody thinks we could work. She’s hardworking and driven, despite appearances, but also more high-maintenance than I’d want.

Morvran is made of composure but I know him well and he’s still excited at having met her in person.

He rejoins his friends and I go off to greet Yen and her companion.

Even before he takes his sunglasses off I know who he is. White hair and obnoxious contact lenses — Geralt of Rivia is a professional playboy who offers his services for money and who’s been around since it was fashionable to call washboard abs “lady killers”, which is how he got his nickname, “the butcher of Blaviken”, after the famous nightclub on the Arcsea coast, where the rich and famous spend their summers. I should know, I have a villa there.

Yen is obviously and shamelessly his type. I’m almost embarrassed for the production team.

Introductions, some idle chatter, Yen is coolly charming as ever, Geralt aims for an air of mystery by talking low, saying little, and dropping the subject from all his sentences.

The look Yen gives me has a speculative edge but she’s tried and failed with me before. Still, she may be an option, an unwieldy one, if all else fails.

Another couple is tucked away in the shade of some palm trees.

The handsome one with the winning white smile of a used car salesman is Foltest, nominal president of Temeria Co., one of the most charismatic people ever to grace the show. He was runner-up and fan favourite on his season of_ Eligiblette_, was given his own season of_ Eligible_, and this will be his second time on _Trouble in Paradise_. This is his day job now.

Ah, and I suppose the other is who we’re supposed to fight over – Maria Louisa La Vallette. Minor Northern nobility, possibly a cadet branch of the long-exiled Zavoias or maybe from one of the southern Bourban lines — I forget. Top shelf marriage material, as her string of wealthy ex-husbands attests, has never had to earn a living and would probably have to ask Siri what the word “work” even means.

They stand as I approach and we chat, all wreathed in smiles.

Maria Louisa’s a lovely creature, polished and self-possessed, an investment piece, and she manages the conversation between the three of us like a seasoned veteran of many a tricky dinner party. Just the sort of wife I need, just the sort of wife I was after when I chose Pavetta.

I leave them to continue my welcome tour and ponder my options.

Oh yes, they’re expecting me to go for her, the Pavetta-type, and make the same mistake I made last time. But I’m not in this for any kind of relationship, I’m in this to win, to leave this universe of spray-on tans and thornless roses on a high note, with my pride and reputation restored.

No, I’ll make a play for her, as everyone expects, but Foltest is welcome to her.

Which leaves me with one of the Zerrikanian swimsuit model disposables or… whoever’s in the main cabana playing with the drinks.

Making just enough noise to make my presence known, I step in, and when the slender figure at the bar turns around I find myself looking straight into a pair of wide, innocent, unmistakable hazel eyes.

Ciaran aep Easnillien, the twink.


	2. Round 1

**— ROUND 1 —**

Ciaran aep Easnillien is another fan favourite but too young and not established enough for anyone considering long-term attachment and marriage. Underprivileged background, juvenile detention for some minor offence, but he’s turned his life around in the last few years. His much noticed stint on the show gave his name recognition a boost and these days he’s someone on Instagram and calls himself a digital marketing strategist. Polished, a bright piece of eye candy.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he smiles, “What would you like?”

I lean onto a bar stool.

“Surprise me,” I answer with more challenge in my voice than I’d intended.

The green eyes flare and the corner of his mouth quirks.

He is stunning, I’ll give him that. Just as I’ll own that he knows it and is making the most of it. As he gets to work, shovelling ice, juice and non-premium liquor into a Boston shaker, it’s immediately obvious why he offered. Handling the shaker shows off his neat, delicate wrists and light catches on the gold tattoos that gleam against the smooth, sun-touched skin.

“I’m Emhyr. Are you our volunteer bartender?”

He laughs, pouring the frothy concoction into a tall glass and with a practiced hand garnishing it with a wedge of lime, a straw, and a pink paper umbrella, giving me a look from beneath lowered lashes.

“Guess I am. I worked as a bartender for a summer once. I’m Ciaran.”

Half my age and looks even younger than that. I hadn’t realised they made them quite this pretty. Not usually my line but very nice.

The drink is not the tooth-rotting brew I was expecting. It’s tart and invigorating, smooth and long enough to almost completely hide the punch of spiced rum.

“Perfect.”

Complimentary but bland, non-committal.

I hold the line as the banter continues. He’s careful not to seem overeager but I’m pleased to see his using his best powder on me.

By rights he should be saving that for Geralt, whose tastes are known to run to elfin treats while his brain tells him to stick to older patrons who will pay the bills. Ciaran holds the rose this round but Geralt’s his best bet for the next round.

And yet, he has his eye on me. That’s good, it will make things look more natural if I do settle on him.

The others join us in the main cabana and we all have dinner together, as is customary the first evening.

I turn the full force of my charm on Maria Louisa. I’m no Foltest but I have a certain magnetism, I’m told, a combination of experience and wealth. She’s interested, more than interested, and if this were the Bachelorette I’d have no competition. If this were the Bachelorette and we were in something more like our habitual urban habitat, I would be using my best powder too. But this is a summer fling, only the most desperate expect anything serious to come of it and I’m not certain Maria will sparkle as she should in this setting.

I make a point to press my attentions on Maria, Ciaran keeps plying me with drinks, and I pretend to be drunker than I am.

Geralt and Yen leave as soon as decently possible, and when Foltest moves to drag Maria away I ask her to stay, slurring my words just enough that it’s noticeable, and she goes.

Mischief managed, Ciaran now starts handing me drinks that are nothing but juice and ice, we go back to our idle banter and this time I let a little more warmth creep into my voice, let my gaze linger.

He’s bolder now, more confident, he thinks that if Maria sticks with Foltest then I’m a surer bet than the fickle Geralt. He’s not wrong there.

Eventually we call it a night and he helps me stumble back to the Blue Team’s deserted luxury bungalows.

* * * * *

“How did yesterday go, Emhyr?”

Vilgefortz, the executive producer. Handsome and slimey, famed as a reality TV magician who could achieve stellar ratings from filming caked mud dry. He can get anyone to do anything. Including act against their own self-interest.

Feigning a hangover I don’t have, I tell him what he expects to hear — that Maria Louisa is very much my type and that our interactions give me confidence that I have a fair chance even though Foltest has evidently had a head start, and that I plan to throw all my weight into this.

He asks me about Yennefer but I shrug and wince. He doesn’t even ask me about Ciaran, he’s too smart for that.

Dark sunglasses and I head back to the cabana for breakfast. Ciaran’s there, takes one look at me and without a word prepares a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

Geralt and Yen are canoodling in a corner and Geralt makes it a point to laugh loudly at her jokes, the jerk.

Morvran is in another corner with the first of the daily reports we’re to receive from my team back at Nilfgaard Inc. — a major concession I was able to negotiate out of Vilgefortz.

Ciaran pauses by our table, very obviously not looking at the papers.

“Food?” he offers before listing what’s been made available at the buffet.

He soon returns with very aesthetically-arranged dishes, which he slides onto the table with a smile.

He’s gracious and easy in his offers and there’s certainly an element of point-scoring for him because this is something that he can do and do well, but he hasn’t shed a need to be useful, to pull his weight in the practical way of those who have always had to work to earn their living.

After breakfast we all head out. Ciaran joins Geralt, Yennefer and Foltest in a game of beach volleyball and while Foltest is showing off his calves, I chat with Maria. We have enough common acquaintances and interests to keep the conversation flowing.

Ciaran is wearing the shortest shorts known to humanity. Geralt is interested. He’s trying to hide it but I catch him eyeing the pretty twink a few times. He’s trying to be smart about this, we all are.

When Foltest comes back for her, Maria Louisa flutters her eyelashes and hopes we’ll talk again later. She wasn’t expecting me to be here, she hasn’t done her homework or she’d know I’m not one for the hunt the way Foltest is.

Yen and Geralt have vanished so Ciaran’s left alone, bouncing the volleyball into the air off his slender wrists. He feigns not to notice me until I’m halfway to him but then smiles brightly and nods when I suggest a swim.

He likes to splash in the water and the setting is obviously still a novelty, but he’s not a strong swimmer — his technique is poor, goes too much off his axis when he comes up for air — so we stay within his depth.

While he splashes around, all wet curls and slick skin and openly appreciative looks, he asks me about Arcsea. I’m surprised he’s never been, there’s always space there for pretty, young things.

Half an hour of this and he’s finally in my arms, having jumped into them himself when a fish nipped his heel — or so he claims.

I generally keep in shape and made a particular effort leading up to the show and if his speculative looks are anything to go by the work paid off. He’s slight and light, easy to hold, especially half-buoyed by the water. He clings a little, in no hurry to be put down, and I can almost feel the calculating look Maria shoots me from shore.

Ciaran yawns into my shoulder.

“Time for a nap?”

He nods and I carry him back to shore.

In the shade of an open cabana, he holds out a bottle of sunscreen.

“Could you?”

An innocent smile and yet he’s bolder than ever.

He’s right to be confident in his body, it’s perfect. Smooth-skinned, lean and toned.

“Shall I do yours?”

He’s good with his hands and loses no time in lapsing into a massage, strong fingers kneading my shoulders. Again, that need to please and go the extra mile.

His body is still cold from the swim and feels pleasantly cool against mine so this is how we doze, skin to skin, in the shade, lulled by the sound of the sea.

“Shall we pack up some food and find a place to have dinner?” I ask when we wake again.

His eyes light up in genuine delight and he nods.

He’s even more astonished when I help prepare the food, astounded, apparently, by my knowing how to handle a chef’s knife.

“I cook too, on occasion,” I say in answer to his surprise.

Ciaran leads the way to a hot tub tucked away in the heights and after we’ve eaten we soak.

His whole body goes pliant against mine when I cup his pretty face in my hands and look straight into his eyes.

“What is it you want out of this, Ciaran?” I ask him, quiet enough to not be overheard and low enough in the water to drown the microphone woven into the unspeakable necklace we wear and that only Ciaran manages to pull off.

He stiffens a little and his gaze hardens but he doesn’t move.

“To win,” he says with an edge of defiance.

“Good. So do I,” I smile and he relaxes a degree or two, “Can we come to an agreement?”

“Terms?”

“No cheating, I don’t want to be seen to forgive anything in that line. No more trying to get me drunk, I’ll play my part without it.”

He considers then nods.

“And your terms?”

“Respect, at least in public. I’ll offer to make drinks and stuff but I don’t want to be asked.”

I nod.

“I’m here to reestablish my reputation, not mistreat anyone. Very well. We have terms.”

He nods, still a little stiff when I cover his mouth with mine but eventually he loosens again and responds.

Drowsy talk and more drinks when we’re out then he falls asleep under the stars and this time I carry him back to my room.

* * * * *

We spend the next couple of days together too, learning to playact the lovesick couple we’re supposed to be.

My silly twink always splashes on ahead of me so he can make a show of ogling me as step out of the ocean.

I’ve been teaching him to snorkel. He really isn’t a confident swimmer and doesn’t like getting his ears wet, but he’s fascinated but the fish and the tangled shadows cast by the water onto the sand, and as long as he knows I’m nearby he enjoys it.

He flings himself down and stretches like a cat on the sun-and-sand-warmed towels, then sits up, eyes sparkling.

“Could we make a sandcastle? I’ve never made one.”

No, there probably aren’t any trips to the seaside in his past. Hard to believe now that he’s a pint-sized, gold-dusted starlet.

I realise he’s waiting for me to take the lead. I have no clear memory of ever making sandcastles but I must have when I was a child.

“Right. We should build beyond the tideline if we want it to last.”

An hour later I’m building the last of the turrets while Ciaran sits in one of the inner courtyards surreptitiously using the spare sand to exfoliate his feet and knees and elbows, surrounded by an ice bucket, a cocktail shaker, spoons, and all the other things he borrowed from the bar to use as tools.

“What is it like? To run a big company?” he asks, handing me an ice tray so I can finish the crenelations along the outer curtain wall, “It must feel amazing, to give other people work.”

“Here, you can use the muddler to finish the top of the turret. It is. I’m proud of it but it’s a responsibility as well. Making decisions for oneself is easy, you don’t owe anyone else any explanations if things go wrong. But if I make the wrong decision — even a sub-optimal one, not a catastrophic one —then the company will be weakened and tens or even hundreds could lose their livelihoods.”

“Is that something you think about?” he asks, conscientiously tamping down the sand.

“Occasionally. It’s always there in the back of my mind, but whenever there are big decisions to make, yes, I’m very aware of it. Morvran too. Hand me the ice scoop and I’ll put in the moat.”

He watches, still fascinated, then lights up in a smile as I put in the final channel and the last stretch of the next wave fills in the moat.

* * * * *

That evening, Yen gives us a couple of knowing looks, Maria Louisa looks a little perplexed at the novelty of seeing an opportunity slip through her fingers. Geralt redoubles his efforts as if to compensate for wandering eyes and thoughts.

Being with Ciaran comes more easily than I’d expected. He’s the most low maintenance creature I have ever met, even-tempered and hard-wearing, and he’s a quick study. He’s often there, with or near me, but doesn’t feel the need to make his presence constantly known.

He holds the rose this round but he’s fallen in with me quickly. He’s a cut above the disposables but hardly someone like Foltest or I and part of his enthusiasm must come from his genuine delight at having the first two rounds at least sewn up.

The producers are playing a number on him though. He was supposed to be a corner of Geralt’s love triangle the way I was supposed to be one of Maria’s and no doubt they’re pointing out to him that he is not my type whereas he is decidedly Geralt’s.

When we’re alone in the evenings, in the hot tub or hiding under the sheets, we have short housekeeping talks, to review what the producers have said, how the day has gone and what behaviours worked and didn’t work. He assures me that he doesn’t mind all the kissing and I tell him I’m indifferent to the drinks umbrellas. Neither of us have onerous demands.

He sleeps half on me, one of my thighs between his, a foot slowly twitching, and likes to have my arm or a pillow wedged under him under him so he doesn’t roll off.

In the mornings he creeps off still smelling of my shower wash in a pretend walk of shame then turns up at the breakfast table freshly laundered and smelling of green tea.

Within days he openly sleeps in my room.

* * * * *

Elimination night comes soon enough. It’s a relief to be sand-free and in real clothes for more than half an hour.

After just a few days, most of us have settled into couples. Yen and Geralt, Foltest and Maria Louisa, Morvran doesn’t seem to have fixed on anyone but doesn’t look unduly worried. No surprises. Those who expect to go seem resigned, everyone else seems quietly confident. Looking around, I’m more certain than ever of my choice. Ciaran has proven easy to handle and is a lot sharper than he lets on.

Dandelion, the master of ceremonies this time in a shimmering aquamarine tie, leads us into the proceedings with the gravitas of someone giving away Nobel peace prizes.

Geralt picks Yen, Maria Louisa chooses Foltest, and the Zerrikanian swimsuit model snaps Morvran up. Two disposables don’t make the cut.

Ciaran picks last. We’re still the biggest surprise of the evening. He’s beaming when he offers me the rose, visibly thrilled by his conquest. By the show’s standards, he’s just one tier above cannon fodder himself and hooking a whale like me in the first round improves his odds a hundredfold. Everybody will be watching to see if he can land me.

The producers must be thrilled.


	3. Round 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr continues to be sarcastic and cynical :D

**— ROUND 2 —**

Dandelion turns up the next day to discuss how everybody feels in the aftermath of the first elimination round, grave and nodding in understanding like he’s talking to war refugees, then introduces the two replacement contestants, one of whom is Triss. She was on Yennefer’s season and they did not get along. Dandelion also announces that Morvran’s to have the first outing and asks who he’d like to take with him.

Morvran, seeming oblivious to expectation, does not invite the person who offered him the rose that kept him in the game last night but rather Maria Louisa, who blushes just enough, dithers just enough, before finally caving to his insistences while Foltest holds onto his composure with gritted teeth in his toothpaste advert smile.

As the surprise couple of this first round, Ciaran and I get an even longer interview than the others and I discover that I can leave most of the talking to Ciaran who brims with enthusiasm — a pint-sized conqueror, a David after felling a Goliath he’d set his sights on.

“Might leave Dandelion to you in future,” I say as we duck into a quiet nook under some palm trees, “In fact, next time you can do the interview without me.”

“He’s not that bad,” Ciaran shrugs before cuddling up beside me on a giant bean bag that I immediately become mired in.

“I don’t see the point of him.”

Ciaran grins, “Rumour is that if you blow him he grants wishes.”

“Really?” I ask, pausing in my battle with the bean bag.

He catches my look and my meaning, and huffs.

“He’s the host, what would be the point? And besides,” he continues, patting the beanbag into quick submission, “A rose in the hand is better than countless wishes in the wind.”

“Try to remember that.”

A moment later he gives me a sly look. It suits him.

“What is it? Wondering if I grant wishes too?”

He laughs and pounces.

He loves kisses and he loves to be handled. I wasn’t sure, at first, if he’d meant it when he said he didn’t mind but I’m surer now. If it isn’t true then he’s a good enough actor that there’s no shame in me being deceived.

He practically purrs as I sink my fingers into his hair and rub his delicate head gently, his tawny tourmaline eyes bright but gently searching.

No, I don’t think I am mistaken. He likes — perhaps needs — to feel wanted and admired.

He yawns — a perfect little yawn that shows off his perfect little teeth — then settles onto my chest.

That’s fine. I’m happy to admire him.

* * * * *

Morvran and Maria Louisa leave. By car rather than helicopter — Maria Louisa didn’t want to risk her updo coming undone.

Left to fend for himself, Foltest tries to engage Triss in a game of bowls, then racquetball, then volleyball, but these ball games don’t interest her and her attention keeps wandering to Geralt and Yennefer who have shacked up in the shade of the largest cabana.

Ciaran and I have ourselves to ourselves, which suits us perfectly. We’ve found a rocky outcrop, shaded by palm trees, that juts out into the sea and against which the water laps loudly, making it harder — we think — for our conversations to be overheard. Not that we say much that couldn’t be overheard, it quickly became obvious that it’s easier to pretend all the time than to slip in and out of the pretence. Ciaran is so good at it that I suspect him of having given someone the boyfriend experience before.

He’s remarkably easy to be with, very adaptable, but those are probably other survival skills he’s had to acquire. He can keep himself occupied in chats or beach games with the other contestants, but it’s never long before he comes back for kisses and caresses, seeming so happy to return there’s never any reason to feign jealousy.

In the late afternoon, once he’s given up on Triss, Foltest joins us on our favourite hanging daybed and I can feel Ciaran stiffen slightly against me. Foltest has, in the past, publicly voiced his opinion of influencers and what he calls Z-list nobodies who owe all their notoriety to reality TV shows. He does not see the irony of this.

Still, Ciaran is polite and engages Foltest in talk. Utterly disingenuous, of course, but he sounds like he means it and Foltest does not notice the sting in Ciaran’s words when he expresses sympathy at Foltest’s plight at being abandoned by Maria Louisa even though things between them seemed to be going so well.

Morvran has been chipping away at that newborn relationship with more steady determination than I could have ever mustered, as the producers well know. They’re less determined when they prod me to chase Maria Louisa — Morvran has given them their love triangle, they don’t need me as urgently.

Foltest’s chatter devolves into mild complaints about Maria Louisa — how she hogs the bathroom in the morning, how she flirts with Morvran to rile him up, how she intentionally makes offhand remarks about photographers or European arthouse films she’s sure he’s never heard of.

Ciaran, probably bored out of his skull, puddles into a nap next to me, half on my lap, and I card his curls absently.

“He’s very attached, isn’t he?” Foltest eventually remarks once darkness has fallen and Ciaran seems sound asleep.

Ciaran is not asleep, I can feel the brush of his lashes against my skin whenever he blinks.

“He hasn’t slept a minute away from me since the second night we were here.”

Even to my own ears my voice sounds heavy with possessive pride. Ciaran’s lips brush my skin.

“But do you really like him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Foltest mulls this over.

“I get it, the whole sex kitten thing, especially on holiday, but… you really prefer him to Maria? Or Yen?”

“I do.”

*** * * * ***

“She’s going to stick with Foltest for now,” Morvran tells me musingly about Maria once he’s recounted the particulars of what sounds like a successful outing, “But she likes me.”

We sit in the deserted cabana drinking rum and the talk turns to business.

By the time Ciaran comes over from the Red Team, ready for bed, I’ve spent an hour rereading the morning’s reports.

“Someone knocked over my toothbrush,” he says in disgust, jumping into bed, “Found it on the floor.”

Geralt. Blind drunk on something that could be used to strip the paint from cars, no doubt.

I kiss his hair as he cuddles close, twining a leg over mine and purring happily.

“I’ll have someone get you a new one.”

* * * * *

Tonight there’s late night dancing.

Completely engineered, like their thornless roses. Here we are on the beach in March, dancing to next summer’s hits all picked out to match the projected, fabricated, popular zeitgeist that will be in place by the show’s airing dates.

Ciaran is in his element. He likes nothing more than to be a trendsetter and arbiter of tastes. He’d already listened to the music, he loves it, and he spent a good chunk of the afternoon poring over his compact wardrobe to eke the very best outfit from it.

He looks fantastic and he’s at the centre of everything. He doesn’t expect me to join in, he just keeps me in drinks, pausing for a long kiss whenever he brings one, looking back at me often to check if I’m watching, delighted that I am.

I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s irresistible when he’s happy.

Finally, I get up and make my way to him, watching how his eyes light up when he sees me, and I notice that as I approach he angles us towards the nearest camera so that we’ll be perfectly framed when I bend him to me and give him a deep kiss.

* * * * *

Ciaran comes in, yawning, and kicks off his flip flops. He’s slow to colour but both of his slender feet now have pale Vs on them.

“Triss says she was out for a walk after dinner and she thinks she saw Yen and Geralt making out on the unicorn rock.”

“Of course she did… On a rock?”

“That’s what she said,” he says, making faces at himself in the mirror, “You know that big one up on the hill, the one that has a twig stuck in it that makes it look like a unicorn if you squint?”

I know the one he means though I don’t recall it looking like a unicorn.

“Do you think it’s true?”

Ciaran pauses halfway through pulling his beater off.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I can think of three dozen more suitable places, for one thing.”

I explain that I don’t believe Yen and Geralt would be careless enough to do this in a place where they might be filmed, let alone be seen by Triss. If it did happen, though, I would also bet a whole bag of florens that no part of Triss seeing it was accidental. And even if it is true, what is she hoping to achieve by telling anyone?”

Ciaran blinks at me.

“Three dozen? Really?”

“Go and have your shower.”

He’s still thoughtful when he returns and though he keeps very still, he doesn’t fall asleep as quickly as he usually does.

“Emhyr?”

“Mmm?”

“Could we…?”

“Could we what?”

“You know…”

“No, I don’t. What?”

Now he raises his head to glare at me.

“It’s been a whole week!”

“So it has. And?”

“You know, I could sleep with anyone here!” he threatens, preparing to leave in a huff.

I catch his wrist and tug him back down.

“Ah, so it’s sex you want. Why didn’t you just say so?”

“You are _such_ a pain,” he mumbles against my shoulder.

“Shhh, no pain,” I murmur then mouth his ear, “No pain at all.”

A hard shiver runs through him and he pulls away to look down at me, hazel eyes soft and glowing with want, his pretty mouth parting in a gasp when I reach down to touch him.

“What about you? Want me to—?”

“No.”

He looks a little taken aback at this, almost hurt.

“I don’t mind people speculating but I won’t do anything to encourage people to visualise. I’m sorry, I’m jealous in that way.”

Ciaran’s wide-eyed surprise melts into a smile and he leans over for a long, lingering kiss.

“Thank you.”

* * * * *

The first rays of sunshine fall across my face. I can hear Ciaran tiptoeing around the room and when everything goes silent I open my eyes and find myself staring into his phone’s camera.

Ciaran head pops out from behind it.

“Close your eyes, I don’t have the perfect shot yet.”

The shot he’s after is one of me sleeping with his rose corsage beside me on the pillow and once he has it he gives me a long, lingering kiss as a reward for having complied with his wishes.

Then he bounces off the bed to go shower, taking care to leave the bathroom door open so I can watch him. Then he pads out, skin glistening, wearing just an impish grin and a loose towel around his hips, and leans over for a wet kiss.

“Coming?”

He takes my hand and gives it a tug, then drags me to the shower once I’m up.

There’s a camera in the room but not in the shower. I informed Vilgefortz in no uncertain terms that if I ever found one there he’d get a free colonoscopy.

* * * * *

Now that our attachment is considered more serious and that I’m giving every sign that I will keep Ciaran at the next elimination ceremony, Ciaran has a little more clout, he’s being paid more attention by the production team. He was allowed a network-disabled phone to take his own pictures for the show’s Instagram account and now he takes the thing everywhere, swinging at the end of a lanyard in its waterproof case. He’s also successfully campaigned to have the paper straws switched to stainless steel and glass, part of the environmentalist creed he picked up during his last passage on the show.

He hadn’t dared hope to have such an easy ride through the show, not even in these early rounds. He expected to have to play the tempter to stay on, a difficult role to play without losing the audience’s sympathy. Now he’s enjoying himself, he’s blinding with happiness. But someone is still pouring poison in his ear. Occasionally I catch a flash of doubt in an unguarded look. But it never lasts. I haven’t been avaricious with my attentions and admiration of him and he basks in them.

Ciaran spends part of the morning transferring the rest of his things into my room. They’d slowly accumulated over the days and last night we decided he may as well move in. I have an en-suite and it will save him running back and forth wondering where he left his hairbrush.

He takes so little space. Everything he has is solid quality but there’s so little of it. He’s neat and has an eye for space and placement, in the manner of one used to making the most of the few scenic spots in a small apartment.

The only things he has in any amount are toiletries — everything from SPF 50+ (one type for his face, another for the rest of him) to bamboo charcoal dental floss. All of it arranged around the shaving mirror where he’s tucked away my rose, pinned to a linen napkin, and at which he now sits, intent on reapplying some gilded tattoos, my share as well as his own.

“Here?” he asks, looking at me in the mirror while awkwardly trying to hold a large arabesque up against a shoulder blade.

“Here,” I answer, sliding it across, onto his spine, “I’ll do it for you.”

I’ve watched him do this countless times. The sun and sea and sand take their toll on the flimsy foil and since Ciaran likes them to look perfect he reapplies most every other day. They look good on him, especially now he’s finally developed a bit of colour despite the total sun block. They’re a pleasing contrast to the biscuit tan and the stark ink of his tattoos.

There’s a steely, almost businesslike discipline to the way he cares for his appearance. The way he spends time every evening mitigating the damage the elements did to his skin and hair during the day. Now that he’s no longer an imminent threat, he and Yen have become friendly and have been trading tips on how to keep their hair glossy and hydrated, both of them insisting on leaving their hair loose despite the extra work when both Triss and Maria Louisa have opted to twist their hair up out of the way and even Geralt has nascent dreadlocks.

Gold tattoos applied, he saunters off to hang his clothes up, long and lithe.

He’s careful about what he eats while not appearing to be, he makes meticulous wardrobe choices so every hue and cut is carefully tailored to his colouring and shape.

He uses this as an opportunity to look through my clothes too. He approves of the wardrobe my team picked out for me and was especially delighted by a small, tight pair of white swim trunks I had no intention of wearing.

“They’ll be perfect when you’ve developed a deeper tan,” he decides, disregarding me entirely.

I suppose it won’t hurt to try them, they’re no worse than Geralt’s budgie smugglers.

Besides, I trust Ciaran’s taste — this is his area of expertise and he has a vested interest in making me look good.

Something he seems to be keenly aware of since he immediately reorganises my wardrobe, putting his favourite items to one side and explaining that they’re to be put on heavy rotation.

He tries on a couple of my shirts, cooing over the quality of the linen. They come down to just below his rump and show off his long, slender legs.

This should bother me.

I’ve never had to share such a small space with another person — I’ve never lived in such a small place, not even in college — even though I’ve had plenty of guests and live-in companions. Pavetta stayed nearly six weeks before she went, leaving nothing but empty closets and cabinets.

She never did say why she left, well-bred until the end, just cited irreconcilable differences — skipped straight to the divorce talk without even bothering with a marriage.

* * * * *

Half my mind on Yen’s voice as she yet again bemoans the fact that it would take witchcraft to keep her hair from drying out in these conditions, I move a cockle shell pawn to C4.

The chessboard is just a large flat rock Ciaran found for Morvran and I, with dim lines and squares coloured in by dragging a paler, softer stone over it.

I’ve taken to playing against myself when Morvran’s unavailable, Ciaran doesn’t play. Instead he’s settled by me, making sympathetic sounds as he listens to Yen who has now lapsed into wider complaints while they sip the drinks Ciaran has made for them — soda water with just enough fruit juice and garnish necessary to make them to pass for virgin cocktails.

“And how did Morvran get the first outing?”

“He’s new to the franchise,” Ciaran soothes, “he needs a bit of a head start. Besides, it’s keeping Geralt on his toes.”

Yen huffs slightly, her gaze momentarily swinging to where Geralt is playing yet another game of volleyball with Triss, Foltest and some others.

“Would you go for Foltest?” Ciaran asks, stirring the ice in his glass then toppling the lime slice perched on the rim into it.

“Maybe,” Yen muses, “He’s handsome, independently wealthy, house-trained. But he’s used to getting his own way and he’s fickle.”

She doesn’t bother asking Ciaran if he’d have Foltest. You couldn’t find two other people on the whole island who dislike each other more. And not in a snark and fireworks way but in a visceral, deeply secret way that wears a smile in public so they won’t have to address it. Foltest accepts the drinks Ciaran offers him, Ciaran accepts Foltest’s invitations to play volleyball or whatever game is in the works. They never avoid one another but avoid finding themselves alone with each other with paranoid care.

But Yen could — should — consider him and keep him friendly in case things don’t work out with Geralt.

Those two came together as if by magic or magnetism. Half the time they behave like lovesick honeymooners, the rest of the time like an old-married couple.

Even then they seem happy — as happy as they can seem anyway, neither is particularly demonstrative. But they aren’t married. Not yet. And Geralt is who he is.

Yen’s instinct is to keep Geralt closer, to create fewer opportunities for temptation.

But that only exacerbate the problem.

For reasons unknown, Morvran has become friendly with Geralt and he claims that Geralt sincerely likes Yen and wants to commit to her. But Yen is a loner, she doesn’t enjoy team sports or most directed activities. She likes the ocean but as something to look at from the distant shade of a cabana with a comfortable deck chair under it.

Meanwhile, Geralt is gregarious, outdoorsy and he loves games.

Triss might not have Yen’s sophistication and polish, she might not have the same cold beauty, but she’s certainly not ugly, she’s not disapproving, she likes to have fun and I’ve never heard her complain about having sand everywhere.

They go back to chatting, Yen still as free with her opinions as if it were just the two of them. She has given up on me. It was the price to pay for keeping Ciaran’s attentions away from Geralt.

* * * * *

“Would you have gone for Geralt, if he’d been free?”

Ciaran always insists on a hot tub session in the evenings. I assume this is part of the staging and since they’re relatively private they’ve been a good place to have our increasingly short maintenance talks. Ciaran seems confident that I will choose him at the upcoming elimination ceremony, that will cement the deal.

Ciaran wrinkles his pretty nose thoughtfully.

“I might have? At the beginning? He’s good-looking.”

“And now?”

He shakes his head earnestly, damp curls swinging.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you look bad,” he promises.

He is dead serious and suddenly looks his age.

“Why are you here, Ciaran? What are you hoping to get out of this?”

“Ideally, a job offer of some kind. But I’d settle for a boost in name recognition.”

“What kind of job?”

“Almost anything but something with an element of marketing or PR would be nice.”

This is a surprise to me. He seems the very type of the gilded youth of today’s social media world.

“Don’t you enjoy what you do now? The freedom you have?”

He looks away a moment then turns back to me, aged another couple of years.

“I do. But I’m tired. I’m tired of worrying if it will last, I’m tired of never having more than 200 crowns in my savings account, and I’m tired of never taking a holiday or never even really enjoying my time off because I’m worried I can’t afford it. I’m tired of struggling just to stay afloat. I want a stable job, I want to build a career.”

He’s hard and defiant.

“I will help you.”

He starts to shake his head.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“All the same.”

I drop a kiss onto his head and pull him closer and gradually he melts back to his usual self.

“Shall we get out?”

He pulls away to tilt his head up at me, eyes wide.

“Can we stay a little longer?”

“Aren’t you tired of this tub?”

“No,” he says very definitely, cuddling close again, “It’s not as good as a real bath but it’s the closest thing.”

So we stay and soak under the stars for a while longer.

*** * * * ***

At the elimination ceremony there are no real surprises.

Ciaran and I must still be a novelty and I’m asked to award my rose first to start the evening off with a bang, as Dandelion phrases it.

Ciaran genuinely looks like he can’t believe his luck and tips himself into my arms for a happy kiss.

Foltest picks Maria Louisa, Morvran picks a disposable as the anticipation increases and Geralt starts to look nervous. To his relief, Yen picks next and he hastily accepts her rose, smiling his best smile as she pins it to his Hawaiian shirt.

Triss is nothing but friendliness as she takes her pick of the remaining disposables.

For days we’ve managed to ignore the undercurrents in these two relationships, but the elimination ceremony, the tension generated by the simple order in which the roses were to be handed out, underlined the frailty of the status quo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


	4. Round 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things start to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still one of the top 5 on the list of Fic I Never Imagined I'd Write.   
Enjoy! <3

**— ROUND 3 —**

Ciaran radiates joy as he flits around the cabana assembling our breakfasts from the buffet tables. 

He was phenomenal in our post-elimination interview, incandescent with joy at having been picked. After breakfast he settles on my lap, cooing and cuddling. He can’t have had much doubt that I would choose him but he’s visibly buoyant at being safe for not just this round but the next as well.

Almost as soon as we leave the main cabana, Ciaran stiffens and following his gaze I see one of the new arrivals speaking with Foltest. 

Vernon Roche is the rising star in the litigation department at La Valette and Loredo, known in business circles as the Blue Stripes after their corporate logo. 

He’s the type of the dark, handsome stranger and he was noted for his brooding looks and accent, the perfect foil for Foltest’s golden boy image. 

I know him from the show but also from my own lawyers who often grumble and wonder what he could have possibly said or done to Foltest to land his firm such a lucrative chunk of Foltest Co’s business. The Blue Stripes take care of several aspects of their legal work but Roche himself is a corporate attack dog and specialises in high profile litigation, particularly the endless cases brought against FolCo by conservation groups such as Save The Earth. 

This likely accounts for Ciaran’s latent hostility. If memory serves, he picked up his passion for reusable earbuds and recycled paper toilet rolls from a treehugger activist during his own time on the show. This and the fact that Roche avowedly shares Foltest’s opinion of reality TV starlets. 

Ciaran has his game face on and looks the picture of sea-sprayed innocence, but I know him and I can almost smell his dislike. 

I never voiced an opinion either way but in truth they were probably not too different. But Ciaran has completely changed them. The more I know him, the more I see how much I underestimated him, his determination and grit in the face of intrinsic disadvantages. 

The other newcomer is unknown to me. 

“Who is that?” 

“Saskia.” 

Ah, yes, Saskia, I remember her now. Another of those hip millennial types with names so unusual or misspelled that they can stand alone. The producers love those. 

She looked different then. Her hair was longer, she still had the surfer look. Now her hair is cropped, no-nonsense, suited to the adventuress and adrenaline junkie she’s become since an injury put an end to her competition days. The dragon tattoo sprawled over her back is unmistakable. 

She’s catching up with Geralt, who she obviously already knows, but as I look around I catch Foltest eyeing her hungrily, although he looks more circumspect and debonaire when he and Maria Louisa come over to welcome her and we introduce ourselves. 

She’s friendly enough but I can almost feel her mentally striking me off her list. 

She and Ciaran are also acquainted — they follow each other on Instagram, I think — and their exchange has some real warmth to it despite her brusqueness. 

We greet Roche too, Ciaran smiling a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but reveals his canines. 

Roche too is polite, shakes my hand like someone who knows where his future retainers might come from, but his manner is even more abrupt than Saskia’s and he’s short with both attention and words, in the way of one used to billing by the hour for both. A handsome man — square-jawed and conventional, with a three o’clock shadow that tells the world that he’s too good at his job to care what people think but that he’s also not much of a rebel at heart. He also looks vaguely uncomfortable, like he’s just realised that this is what tropical islands are like and that his business casual beachwear hasn’t quite hit the mark. 

Ciaran is probably delighted and I expect later he will regale me with a full account of every stylistic faux pas. 

* * * * *

Late afternoon and we’re back in our nook and once he’s taken his daily golden hour snapshots, Ciaran settles across my lap to look through the day’s pictures. 

We’ve improved our nook, notably by the addition of a second bean bag, but Ciaran insists on sharing and I have no particular objections. 

Ciaran, who is laid out over my stomach, looks up from his phone, wide-eyed and serious. 

“Do you prefer ‘Cianhyr’ or ‘Emhyran’?” 

“I don’t know what either of those words mean.” 

He frowns at me — only very slightly, he might get a crease. 

“We need a portmanteau, the crew can’t think of a good one. They’re all terrible.” 

I pat his rump and close my eyes. 

“Well, if all else fails, it will just have to be ‘Ciaran and Emhyr’.” 

Having the camera phone has transformed him. I’ve always known that this is effectively what he does for a living but only recently started to realise how much work it takes to produce those speciously candid, effortless snapshots. He spends a couple of hours like this every day, self-critiquing, sorting through pictures that can be edited into final versions, the failures, and the ones in-between that go into a proof of concept folder and that he’ll retake from a different angle or at a different time of day or with different people or props. 

He explains what he’s doing, surprised and thrilled that I’m interested, and I discover that he’s a perfectionist. 

What he does is so subtle that most of us can’t even see that he’s doing it. His life experiences and competences do not translate well into a CV but he has a wealth of them. 

He encourages me to try my hand at it when he’s not using the phone, so there are pictures of Ciaran just out of the shower and wringing out his hair, Ciaran sitting cross-legged on the bed wearing one of my shirts and little else, Ciaran peering into the mirror intently as he rubs leave-in conditioner into his curls. 

He tells me all his tricks and secrets — how to frame a shot, how to angle it, how to avoid making it look too obviously posed, how to watch for unflattering shadows. 

I couldn’t have put my image and reputation into better hands. Perhaps, further down the line, after a suitable interval, I’ll hire him as an image consultant. 

* * * * *

Fussing with his creams and combs is usually Ciaran’s favourite bedtime ritual, but tonight he’s so distracted he doesn’t even seem to notice the crease forming between his brows as he frowns thoughtfully at the mirror. 

“What is it?” 

“He slept with Triss.” 

Geralt. 

This explains the speculative looks Ciaran’s been throwing Yen’s way since the week’s outing was announced. 

“How do you know?” 

“Triss told me.” 

Triss is a sweet girl but she evidently considers Geralt fair game and is more determined than she looks. This is entirely in the spirit of the show, as would be any meddling on Ciaran’s part but I would much prefer he not get involved. 

“It would suit Triss for someone — someone like you — to tell Yen that Geralt cheated on her. She gets the result she wants with none of the risk. It doesn’t even need to be true for it to work.” 

Ciaran stares at me. 

“So I shouldn’t say anything?” 

“I won’t stop you and I’ll support you whatever you decide. But I would not.” 

Another silence as he quietly considers the implications. 

He’s struggling with it, although I don’t know if he’s really unsure about what to do or is only worried about appearing to do the right thing. 

“Feels wrong to say nothing…” 

“Does she really want to know?” 

Ciaran blinks at me. 

“I would.” 

“Yes, but does Yen? She knows what Geralt is — the whole world knows Geralt can’t keep it in his pants — and I doubt she has any illusion that she’s changed his character in any fundamental way. She’s always known there was a likelihood of this happening. All you would do is force her to confront the fact that it has happened in public, to accept it. Nobody wants to do that.” 

His eyes widen at this and he’s still chewing his bottom lip when he huddles next to me in the narrow bed. 

“I don’t know what to do.” 

“You don’t need to decide now. Sleep it over.” 

* * * * *

Ciaran comes over and curls up on my lap without a word. 

“Have they left?” 

He nods. 

“By helicopter. Don’t know how she gets her hair to behave so well. It’s like magic.” 

He kept Yen company while she was getting ready and judging by how dimmed he seems, he’s still upset about her situation. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

I kiss his curls and he soon relaxes again. 

* * * * *

Ciaran and Saskia team up against Foltest and Roche in yet another impromptu volleyball game. They are both deathly competitive and beside me I can feel Maria Louisa’s unease as Foltest’s admiration of Saskia becomes increasingly apparent. 

After the game they all come over for drinks, Ciaran and Saskia glowing with triumph as well as sweat. 

Saskia’s bikini is one of the skimpiest I’ve seen but the way she wears it makes it seem just a matter of convenience. 

Foltest’s attentions are divided between her and Maria Louisa, who has a gracious smile fixed on her face. 

Ciaran shoots me a meaningful look over the rim of his glass as he comes over to stand by me. He’s all tossed sweaty curls and dewy skin, eyes sparkling at this victory over Foltest and Roche. Foltest is too caught up in being charming to notice but Roche’s expression makes it clear he feels the sting. Then again, he usually looks grim. 

* * * * *

Maria Louisa has been spending more time with us in an effort to remind Foltest that he hasn’t yet “sealed the deal” as he would phrase it, in the non-ironic way of one who can conceive of no other type of deal worth sealing. 

Saskia’s body language says she’s not interested. 

Roche has taken to trailing Foltest, looking grim, but eventually gives him up as a lost cause and joins us for drinks. 

His reputation for professional competence is probably founded but the man has no talent for small talk. Fortunately both Morvran Voorhis and Maria Louisa have that to spare. 

Morvran is taking advantage of Foltest’s distraction to reiterate his availability and interest in Maria Louisa more strongly. 

Maria continues to be extremely gracious. She needs to keep her options open but doesn’t want to appear fickle so she will seem to continue to prefer Foltest until he too visibly neglects her, at which point she can cry on Morvran’s consoling shoulder. Or so she hopes. She has the rose this week, she can afford to wait, but there’s no telling what might happen. 

Meanwhile Ciaran is crouched by the water’s edge, offering a sliver of mango to one of the flamingos, seemingly without a care in the world. 

We’re comfortable together now. The transactional nature of our agreement and our respective characters meant there were few angles to start with and our frank talks at the start dulled those down quickly. It has been days since we had our last maintenance talk, there’s been no need. Even Vilgefortz has stopped needling me over Maria and Yen. 

The flamingo accepts the sliver of mango and Ciaran looks over his shoulder at me, green eyes sparkling. 

When I chose him I was making the best choice with the information I had from the available options. Even so, I have been incredibly lucky. 

* * * * *

Ciaran waited for Yen to get back and comes back late. 

“Did she enjoy herself?” 

He returns from his shower holding the toothbrush, yawning, and in a pair of boxers for the camera. 

“She did,” Ciaran answers before sticking the toothbrush in his mouth. 

We threw out his old toothbrush and since he’s been fascinated with my sonic one I asked for a spare head for him to use. He delights in it. 

“I think maybe you were right,” he says, pausing to rinse his mouth out, “About Yen already knowing.” 

“Oh?” 

He nods as I throw back the sheet for him then settles along me. 

“She sounded really optimistic but she said some things about compromise, knowing where one stands and accepting people the way they are and making it work…” 

Perhaps they’ve come to some kind of agreement, the way Ciaran and I have. That or she sees no other option. We’re halfway through the season, a bit late to change horses even if she had her eye on a winner. I am no longer available and Yen is too smart to bother with Foltest. 

“She must feel confident.” 

Confident that the urgings of Geralt’s head will drown out those of other parts of his anatomy. 

“She sounded it. Or was trying to sound it anyway.” 

This talk seems to have reassured Ciaran and as the conversation slips to other subjects his mood evens out, and by the time he falls asleep with his nose pressed against my shoulder, he’s back to his usual sweet self. 

* * * * *

Even half asleep I can feel Ciaran’s insistent gaze on me and when I open my eyes there he is, all big, serious eyes. 

“It’s time,” he announces solemnly. 

He means for the white swim trunks. Evidently the result of his early morning appraisal of me is that I’m now tanned enough to pull them off. 

His eyes sparkle and he’s practically licking his lips once I get them on. 

I nuzzle his curls a moment. 

“Satisfied?” 

He nods. 

“What should we do now you’ve had your way with me?” 

“Go down to the beach so I can show you off?” 

I can’t help laughing at his expression of repressed excitement and pull him in for a sound kiss. 

* * * * *

Yen and Geralt seem closer than ever but Geralt’s good behaviour is that of someone hoping to be let out on parole. Perhaps Triss was telling the truth. 

Below us, on the beach, Geralt and Foltest are putting together the millionth game of volleyball. When we leave this place I will lobby for the sport’s discreditation as an Olympic discipline. 

“Do you think they know what they’re doing?” 

Roche grunts. 

“They’re both idiots.” 

“Their situations aren’t that complicated.” 

“Aren’t they?” 

“Nothing humanity hasn’t been confronted with before. There’s a choice to be made, they just have to make it.” 

“Easy for you to say. You’re not conflicted.” 

I glance at Ciaran who’s laughing as he poses for selfies with Maria Louisa, every inch the rich man’s plaything. 

Roche is right, of course. I haven’t had a moment’s doubt since Ciaran and I committed to each other on our second day here. 

“What about you? Do you have someone in mind?” 

Roche rubs a hand over his stubble. 

“Geralt wants me to pick Triss.” 

“And will you?” 

He shrugs. 

“I would have anyway. Triss and I have been friends for years — we met at one of those hideous mixers. Nobody else here I’d rather save.” 

“You’re not doing him any favours by keeping her around.” 

“It’d be for her sake. She has the right to stay. If he can’t keep it in his pants… that’s his problem.” 

Can’t argue with that. 

And the same goes for Foltest. Two grown men with the impulse control of immature preschoolers. 

“What will you do if Triss chooses Geralt at the next ceremony?” 

Another noncommittal shrug from Roche who grimly surveys the sun, the sea, the beach. He seems to find the flamingos particularly objectionable. 

Clearly he’s as cynical as I am about finding love here. Perhaps he’s only looking to make additions to his client portfolio. 

* * * * *

Roche does end up choosing Triss at the elimination ceremony, after Geralt offered his rose to Yen and was accepted. 

There’s no longer the same febrility around Ciaran and I by now but Ciaran is still glowing with pride, looking as delighted as at the first elimination ceremony. He really is good at pretending. 

One of the extras picks Morvran — he is universally liked, I don’t know how he does it — and this leaves Maria Louisa free to choose Foltest. 

Saskia picks another of the disposables and the evening ends with no major surprises but in the choked atmosphere of an impending storm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Round 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally forgot I was sitting on a nearly finished chapter of this...

**— ROUND 4 —**

I look Vilgefortz straight in the eye. 

“What kind of outing?” 

“Dinner and an overnight stay in the Dream Suite.” 

I’ve finally been offered the chance to leave this benighted beach for a few hours and despite the mad urge to accept, I hold my nerve. 

“I want to wear a suit that fits, preferably one of mine. I want a shower with enough pressure to power clean a house and a bottle of single malt at least as old as Ciaran is. For him, a selection of clothes in his size — tasteful ones — and a hamper of creams, shampoos, bath salts and anything else he might want. Dinner somewhere expensive and exclusive where he can be seen and shown off. Silk sheets, all the usual things, and a bathrobe from the gift shop that Ciaran can keep. Manicure, pedicure, massage, for both of us. In the early afternoon, so Ciaran can take as long as he wants to get ready for dinner.” 

Vilgefortz flashes a toothy smile. 

“That’s all fine except we can’t do dinner in public. You’re too well known, Emhyr, someone’s bound to recognise you.” 

“Fine. But a real restaurant, with a chef and a kitchen of repute, not an event space with reheated food.” 

Vilgefortz holds his hands up and nods. 

“That we can do.” 

When I leave Vilgefortz, Ciaran is still chatting with the newcomer, Iorveth — the same Iorveth responsible for Ciaran’s obsession with sustainable shampoo and hemp loofahs. 

Handsome, very handsome, not unlike Ciaran is but more ruggedly so. Lean, tanned, a little wind-chafed, outdoorsy. The bright red bandana wrapped around his hair is a pop of colour in an otherwise muted outfit — a shibori-dyed shirt worn open over stone-coloured shorts. 

There’s something about him, though. Something in his eyes that despite his relaxed, easygoing manner, speaks of danger, like he’d be just as comfortable snorting cocaine off someone’s stomach or blowing up a whaler as he is scuffing the sand with his toe, hands in his pockets, while he and Ciaran chat. 

He is dangerous, in the sense that he’s not afraid of the law or what society thinks. Dangerous because he’s not afraid to risk life or limb or liberty to promote his beliefs and do what he thinks is right. And dangerous because his passionate proselytising has already converted thousands to his ideas. 

Which is why he’s now the public face of his conservation group. Save The Earth was once Save The Squirrels, a small single-issue group that became so successful it started branching out into orang-utans, whales, rain forests and everything else that needs saving. 

Iorveth’s drive and charisma brought all these issues into the mainstream media and this PR role has brought him into public but indirect conflict with Roche. 

Beyond a curt nod of acknowledgement, they have cordially ignored each other, not bothering to even go through the pretence of introductions. That cannot last, however, this beach is far too small for that. 

* * * * *

Geralt is treading on eggshells. 

I’m sure some part of him is relieved that Triss stayed, but Yen must have expected her to go and she is coolly livid. 

As the day wears on, Triss is increasingly confident, Yen is increasingly smiling and unconcerned, and Geralt looks increasingly guilty. He probably did sleep with Triss and has compounded his error by not getting rid of the evidence. 

Ciaran is upset on Yen’s behalf and is more convinced than ever that Geralt doesn’t deserve her but he’s reassured by her behaviour, everything about it seeming to confirm that she did know and took her decisions accordingly. 

In any event, he has his hands full with the other storm brewing. 

Iorveth’s eyes lit up like beacons the moment he laid eyes on Saskia. Ciaran says Iorveth’s been taken with her ever since she was first on the show but that since they are both often away building hospitals on ice floes or saving premature bumblebees they’d never had a chance to meet at one of the mixers. 

Iorveth follows Saskia everywhere, and since Foltest also follows her everywhere and since Roche follows  _ him _ everywhere, there is immediate friction. Iorveth does have more things in common with Saskia and he needles both Foltest and Roche with his comments constantly. Foltest has to keep his instinctive scorn in check for Saskia’s sake while Roche, who well knows Iorveth’s oblique jabs are aimed straight at him, looks grim and bristles but does not rise to the bait. Yet. 

Ciaran tags along to keep the peace and by dinnertime he’s so worn out with it he barely has the energy to make conversation. Another day of this will wipe out what’s left of his natural good humour. Our time away will do him good. 

* * * * *

Foltest comes over to the cabana with Roche in tow and they get themselves beers before joining me. 

I still don’t understand how they can drink beer in this climate. They must be just one step up from savages. 

“That pretty boy toy of yours seems very taken with the treehugger. You’re not worried?” 

Boy toy. Foltest still thinks he’s being funny. When we get out of here I’m going to show Ciaran how to short FolCo. stocks — that will be funny. 

“They’re old friends.” 

Foltest lapses into his obsession with Saskia and when she appears and is immediately accosted by Iorveth, Foltest makes a quick exit, abandoning his beer and Roche. 

Roche observes the threesome darkly then snorts. 

“He’s going to make a fool of himself.” 

“Foltest?” 

He nods and sips his beer. 

“He’s wrong for her. He just wants to catch her and she knows it.” 

“Do you like her?” 

“I like her but not in that way,” he pauses for another sip, “She’s too independent. She just does whatever the hell she wants to, she never stays to argue the point. There’s never any compromise. And it’s not even about right or wrong, she doesn’t mind being wrong so long as she does it her way. She just decides, and you can take it or leave it — which is fair enough, I suppose, but I just don’t see how you can build a relationship on that.” 

I don’t have Ciaran’s knack for eliciting confessions and secrets, though people do inexplicably confide in me — primarily Foltest — I’m still surprised at Roche doing it. I’d expected him, of all people, to keep his own counsel. 

“I would rather fight it out,” he continues, staring out at the three of them absently, “Fight it out until you reach a common position you can both stand by.” 

He turns to me and the talk turns to more mundane things until Iorveth comes in, looking for a drink. He downs half a glass of water then pauses by our table. A muscle twitches in Roche’s jaw. 

“Did you want something?” he finally grinds out. 

“Not from you” Iorveth answers genially, “Did they lose your suitcase on the way here? Or did you mean to dress like that?” 

“I’m not the one wearing a stupid bandana.” 

“No, although you did look very fetching with that towel wrapped like a dishrag around your head earlier,” Iorveth remarks, deadpan, then drains the glass, “And unless you want a farmer’s tan, — or burn — you probably shouldn’t be wearing a shirt.” 

Roche glowers at him, swallowing a growl. 

“You’re wearing one.” 

“Well, yeah, but I’m not the colour of a whipped cream turd,” Iorveth yawns and stretches both arms above his head, showing off his washboard stomach, before turning to leave, “You should be drinking sunscreen instead of beer, you’ll need as much as you can get.” 

Roche turns to me, momentarily speechless with rage. 

“Is Ciaran this much of a brat?” 

“No. And he’s not wrong. You did burn the first day you were here.” 

Roche doesn’t argue the point, he just grimaces like he has a bad taste in his mouth then takes a long swallow of beer. 

* * * * *

Someone tumbles more rose petals into the bath and the water’s surface is now covered in them, preserving Ciaran’s dignity — or mine since I’m more jealous of his nakedness than he is. 

He preens and smiles for the cameras and crewmen taking stills, evidently enjoying himself. He meets my gaze a few time and blows me kisses, dissolving into giggles. 

I hold out my hand for one of the PA’s phones. 

“Hand me that.”

As I frame the shot, Ciaran’s eyes light up and suddenly he’s incandescent with happiness. 

That’s the Ciaran I capture before leaning onto the rim of the tub to give him a sound kiss. He clings to my shirt with wet hands, breathless. 

“Show me, show me,” he says, reaching for the phone. 

He scrolls through the pictures gingerly then beams up at me proudly. 

“You took the best one.” 

It is the best one. The hotel will be begging to be allowed to use it for their wedding and honeymoon promotional packages. 

Meanwhile, Ciaran is leaning out of the tub, craning to see as the crew show him the various stills and videos, and I want him all to myself. 

“That’s enough. Everybody out.” 

Once we’re alone, I look down at Ciaran who is still glowing happily. 

“Aren’t you tired of hot tubs?” 

“Never! Want to get in?” 

“I’ll have a shower, thanks, I can barely remember what a real shower feels like.” 

Vilgefortz has delivered on the water pressure promise and the shower feels fantastic, so invigorating that I indulge in it longer than I usually would. 

I can feel Ciaran watching me while he marinates in the tub, hair slick with conditioner, face covered in exfoliant, splashing around as he scrubs himself with a loofah. 

By the time I get him out, he’s all pruney fingers and the cloying scent of roses clinging to his skin. 

As he sits in front of the mirror prettying himself up, I twist a glossy curl around my finger. 

“How much conditioner did you use?” 

“All of it.” 

With practiced ease, he rubs some hair wax through his hair to define the curls. 

By the time he’s finished primping and dressed himself in a sharply-cut suit, he’s stunning. 

I would have preferred to show him off somewhere but he’s starry-eyed at the novelty of the exclusivity — he’s never had a place reserved for him. 

“We can ask them to make something else if there’s nothing you like on the menu.” 

“No, it’s just I can’t decide if I want the crab or the mahi-mahi.” 

“I’ll order the crab, that way you can have both.” 

“You mean share? Is that the done thing in places like this?” 

“We can do whatever we want.” 

We’re both careful about what we eat but he’s not watching his weight tonight and it’s a pleasure to see. He even indulges in dessert — a frothy Toussaintois confection that is all air, whipped cream and strawberries — while I drink a ristretto I’m going to regret later when I can’t fall asleep. But it’s my first real coffee after two weeks of thin dishwater with a lower caffeine content than a coconut and the first taste of it is like coming back to life. 

On the restaurant balcony, he slips an arm into my jacket and presses himself close as we admire the lights all along the coast. 

“Bathtime!” he announces when we get back to the suite. 

“Don’t put too much bubble bath in it or you won’t be able to use the air jets,” I call after him as he disappears into the bathroom to run the bath, “Or use bath salts instead.” 

I shrug off my jacket, take off the vest, drag off the tie and I’ve just unbuttoned the top few buttons of the shirt when he wanders back into the bedroom. Unbuttoning and folding up my shirt cuffs, I watch as he undresses and puts his clothes away carefully before prancing off into the bathroom again. 

“Do you want a drink?” I ask, finally pouring myself a glass of the whisky, “There’s a bottle of asti.” 

Soon he’s soaking in the bath, holding a flute of wine, beaming and slightly bewildered, like he can’t believe any of this is real. 

“Do you want more conditioner? We can ask someone to get one of the salon kits from the gift shop.” 

“I’m fine. And the gift shop’s probably closed,” he answers primly. 

“They’ll open it for me,” I murmur as I pull a chair up into the doorway and settle into it. 

“Shouldn’t you be trying to bankrupt Vilgefortz with pay-per-view porn?” 

“I prefer the live show.” 

He preens at this. He knows it’s true, he believes it. And why shouldn’t he? He may not be everybody’s taste — who is? — but even a potato would admit he’s easy on the eyes. 

I had expected a dropping of masks while we were here in private, away from the beach’s spying eyes and cameras, but we must have been pretending less than I thought, and there’s no change at all in our relationship. 

“Join me?” 

He’s incandescent with happiness and impossible to resist so I leave my clothes on the back of the chair and get into the tub. 

“Sea minerals… Really?” 

He doesn’t even answer that, already bouncing into my arms, armed with a sea sponge. 

“I did wash before dinner,” I remind him dryly as he scrubs me then busies himself washing my hair. 

Once he’s done, he settles against me and I tilt his pretty head up. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask after a long, lazy kiss. 

“It’s been the best day of my life,” he admits in a mumble against my shoulder. 

“When we finally get off this damn island I’ll take you somewhere really nice to celebrate.” 

For a while he just lays quietly on me as we soak. 

“Shall we go to bed?" 

“A little longer?” 

“Your fingers are already pruney.” 

“Please?” 

“It’s not the last bath of your life. You can have as many as you want once we leave the island.”

He draws a shape onto my chest with his fingertip, mute. 

“I’ve never lived in a place with a bathtub.” 

He’s embarrassed. He knows how different our lives are. 

After I brush a kiss against his hair he tucks himself closer and I wring out the sponge over his back as we soak a little longer. 

“Emhyr?” he murmurs, finally looking up, “Now that we’re alone… Could we…?” 

It is always gratifying to have a pretty young thing ask to be indulged in this way, and even after all these years I’m still weak to it. 

Ciaran is sincere in asking. He likes to be touched, that’s just the kind of person he is, and while I’ve done what I can for him within the narrow constraints of our bed, the blanket, and my obsessive need for privacy, but I know he’s wanted more for weeks. 

Tumbled onto the bed and trapped in my arms, Ciaran purrs happily then giggles in delight when I put my hands and mouth on him. His breathing catches and quickens, he gasps when I take him, and the sound he makes as I push him over the edge is breathless, nearly voiceless. 

Even in this huge bed, Ciaran sleeps almost on top of me, one leg thrown over mine, so I tuck a couple of spare pillows around him. 

At some point during the night he wakes and touches me tentatively and when he finds I can perform for him again he gives voice to all his delight and enthusiasm as he rides me to exhaustion, again falling asleep on me. 

We’ll probably have to keep the relationship going once the show ends for at least a month — two would be better — to keep up appearances. Ciaran can stay at the apartment, there’s plenty of space. He’ll enjoy it, it’s full of light, photogenic nooks and designer baubles. 

That will give me time to discuss his future plans with him and make sure he has a secure footing on the career ladder.

Ciaran’s grip on me tightens and he smiles in his sleep as if he can sense my thoughts. 

* * * * *

While we were away from the beach, all hell broke loose. 

Triss has publicly claimed she and Geralt slept together, Yen is furious but pretending not to be and also has not confronted Geralt who looks miserable and has not said anything either way. 

Without Ciaran around to act as a human buffer zone, Iorveth and Roche didn’t make it through breakfast without their hostility breaking cover and you can hear their shouting matches from every part of the beach. Roche calls Iorveth’s kind parasites and dream-fuelled idealists while Iorveth accuses him of having a black soul. 

“You’re brilliant!” Iorveth spits out, “You could do anything you want! You  _ chose _ your side!” 

Ciaran spends half the night up with Iorveth and is so exhausted when he gets back that he doesn’t even bother going overtime with the toothbrush before collapsing onto me, curls still damp and fragrant from the shower. 

“I’m worried about Iorveth,” he mumbles sleepily, “He’s obsessed with Saskia.” 

“Roche says she has friend-zoned him and he’d do better to focus his energies elsewhere.” 

“Well, he would say that,” Ciaran scoffs, “He’s trying to help Foltest. Saskia has way more in common with Iorveth than with Foltest.” 

“True, but it may not be enough. There’s no telling what Saskia wants out of a relationship or even this show.” 

“That’s true,” Ciaran yawns, snuggling closer, “I just want Iorveth to be happy. He deserves to be happy. He’s wonderful.” 

That hero worship again, but there’s no need to say anything because he’s already asleep, sweet as an angel. 

There are only two rounds left after this one. We could skip straight to the last one, nothing can come between us now. Even if we left now we’d likely have achieved our aims. I’ve treated Ciaran well, he’s been happy, genuinely happy. And Ciaran has given such a good impression of himself that he’s bound to get offers and proposals, even without my help, which he’ll have regardless. 

The havoc we returned to after the day spent in close, easy intimacy reminded me how fortunate we both were to have opted out of all that conflict and uncertainty. We’ve had a good run and Ciaran has been absolutely perfect, a much better partner than I could have wished for. He probably doesn’t have it in him to cause that much drama. He likes to play, that’s true, and to create moments, but not like this. 

The elimination ceremony should be interesting. 

* * * * *

Mine is the first rose to give and Ciaran manages to look as exhilarated about it as he did the first time I offered him one. Our outing together was a success, we’ve been an established couple for so long now, this ceremony is not a surprise for us, it is the coronation of our relationship. 

Next is Triss, looking determined. 

“Geralt, will you accept this rose?” 

Geralt looks like he’s just watched his favourite surfboard be vaporised by sunshine. He blubbers an acceptance, gaping like a fish stunned by explosives, and doesn’t seem to come to his half-wits until after Triss has pinned the corsage onto his Hawaiian shirt. 

Morvran’s next and he picks Maria Louisa. They already have the air of a comfortable couple and we should all be happy for them but frankly they get lost in the both the shock of what just happened and dread anticipation. 

Iorveth is next and he chooses Saskia who shrugs and acquiesces. 

Foltest is next, having barely had the time to pull himself together. He picks Roche and I wonder if he isn’t a better fit for Foltest than Saskia is. 

And finally, Yen. Dead last after nearly half an hour marinating in cold rage. She’s as cool as ever as she picks one of the disposables and is accepted. 


	6. Round 5

**— ROUND 5 —**

The atmosphere in the breakfast cabana crackles with friction. 

Triss comes out to breakfast looking quietly defiant while Yen drinks her coffee wearing sunglasses, aggressively unconcerned. 

Geralt is nowhere to be seen. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he slept on the beach. 

Foltest is not in the best position himself but that seems forgotten in the general sense of anticipation and he looks on in interest from Saskia’s table. 

The interviews are so fraught that even Dandelion looks haggard by the time he leaves. 

As soon as our debriefs are over, Yen whisks Ciaran away. 

Roche and Morvran join me and we watch Triss and Geralt sitting together on the beach. He’s poking a hole into the sand with a piece of driftwood, silent while she talks. 

“What’s Geralt going to do?” 

Morvran shrugs. 

“He doesn’t know himself. He still, I believe, prefers Yen, especially as a long term prospect, and they have come this far together. But he did sleep with Triss and he accepted her offer last night at the elimination ceremony… He hasn’t even spoken to Yen since it happened. Would she even have him at this point? Would her pride let her? Is it worse to be seen to take him back or to leave the show alone?” 

We fall silent, pondering this. 

Further down the beach, Foltest and Maria Louisa are screening their argument behind a polite facade of frozen smiles and quiet words. 

“Is she going to take him back?” 

“Oh, I doubt it. She made her choice last night. There is no advantage to changing horses now,” Morvran pauses thoughtfully, “I think she really wondered, if it had come down to saving her or Saskia, what he would have done.” 

“What are Foltest’s chances with Saskia?” 

Roche snorts. 

“A pile of garbage fished out of the ocean and dumped onto his chair at the breakfast table would have a better chance. She’s interested in that, at least. I’ve tried to tell him but he’s convinced she’s just playing hard to get. He can’t wrap his head around the idea that some people just aren’t like that.” 

“Who will she pick? Iorveth?” 

Roche rubs the stubble on his chin. 

“Iorveth still hopes so. He thinks this could be a friends to lovers thing but that’s a hard sell in one week. The passion’s just not there, it isn’t even on the road yet. She knows how he feels, he’d be low-hanging fruit, but if she feels real friendship for him at all then she won’t lead him on.” 

He leans back and takes a long swallow of his drink. 

“She’s wrong for him anyway.” 

* * * * *

As the confidante of so many of the interested parties, Ciaran is at the centre of the storm and disappears for most of the day. After my afternoon swim with Morvran, I go looking for him, certain he needs saving. 

He looks up then stands as I approach, rocking onto his tiptoes to kiss me. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve been neglecting you.” 

I cup his face in my hands. He looks wan. He needs time away from other people’s problems and I can put my foot down and take the weight of the blame of it. 

“Yes.” 

Ciaran makes an apologetic sign to Yen and we make our way to our nook. He looks up at me a few times like he’s about to say something before thinking better of it. Evidently something he doesn’t want the cameras and crew to overhear. 

An orchid has flowered almost directly above one of the beanbags and Ciaran studies it curiously from the comfort of my arms. 

“They’re beautiful but they’re parasites, aren’t they?” 

“No, they’re epiphytes, they get what they need from the environment. They live in a kind of symbiosis with the host plant. Sitting in the high branches of a tree, the orchid gets more rain and sunshine than is would on the ground, and it helps hold moisture and attract pollinators to the host plant.” 

Ciaran blinks at me. 

“So they’re not just decorative?” 

“Not just, no, being decorative is part of their usefulness.” 

He makes a happy sound and settles down again. 

* * * * *

Saskia has been awarded this round’s outing and, like Morvran before her, she side-steps the apparent dilemma by choosing neither Foltest nor Iorveth and instead selecting one of the disposables — short as a jockey and twice as wide, with one of those ubiquitous hipster beards. 

Iorveth takes Ciaran off to sulk, and Foltest comes to me to sulk, Roche in tow as always. 

After the first five minutes, I tune out Foltest’s complaining, as does Roche, if his slightly glassy look is anything to go by. 

Not sure why he puts up with Foltest. He’s a handsome man, not exactly personable, perhaps, but intelligent and civil when he wants to be — he should have plenty of other options. Foltest is lucky to have him, Roche has been more patient and loyal to him than he deserves. He would be better off with Roche than with either Saskia or even Maria Louisa, and their friendship has already outlasted any relationship of Foltest’s. 

When I’ve had my fill of complaints and used up my last drop of patience, I stand, excusing myself. 

“I should check what Ciaran’s up to.” 

Foltest eyes me thoughtfully. 

“You know, I wouldn’t have thought that his type would be the right match for someone as jealous as you are.” 

I understand why he thinks that, but Ciaran is not as promiscuous as he looks, just like Foltest himself is more promiscuous than he looks. 

I find Ciaran and take him away for kisses and a swim but the peace does not last long. 

Saskia returns more enamoured with her hairy half-pint than ever and so Iorveth and Foltest sink into an even greater sulk, and after grabbing a bite of dinner and a kiss, Ciaran goes back to wherever Iorveth is lying low and licking his wounds. 

Vilgefortz comes over with a glass of beer in one hand and a tablet tucked under his arm. 

“Alone?” 

“Ciaran’s putting Saskia’s fires out. Well, one of them anyway. I suppose Roche is taking care of the other.” 

Vilgefortz sighs, putting on his serious face. 

“Listen, Emhyr, there’s something I wanted to show you. Could be nothing, but I thought you should know.” 

And he pushes the tablet towards me. 

* * * * *

_ How did I not see it?  _

I take my anger out on fronds and branches as I go looking for them — for  _ him _ . 

For Ciaran, who was was talking about Iorveth long before he even arrived here, since the first day, in fact. Even though his name was unspoken, Iorveth has been everywhere all this time — in the organic cotton shirts, the used coffee grounds scrubs, the espadrilles hand-made on a tiny island off the coast of Ofier, even the damn charcoal toothpaste I’ve taken to using. 

All of it was  _ Iorveth _ . 

I find them hiding behind some bushes, just as I expect to, laughing and talking low and looking every inch as intimate as they did in the pictures and videos Vilgefortz showed me. The many pictures he showed me, taken over the several days since Iorveth turned up. 

They both look up at me, Ciaran  _ still _ the picture of innocence, just as he has been all this time, even though I’ve caught him red-handed. 

“Emhyr?” 

Iorveth is coiled for action, ready to spring up in Ciaran’s defence. Against  _ me _ . 

“Leave us.  _ Now _ .” 

He’s hot-tempered and bristles at that but Ciaran restrains him, murmurs a few words and off he goes. 

“Emhyr? What happened?” 

Still the face of an angel, still the sweet concern he knows how to turn on and off like a light. 

I show him the pictures on the tablet and he scrolls through them wordlessly. He’s surprised, but then he probably didn’t expect to be caught, he’s always been so careful, so good at finding hidden spots away from the microphones and cameras. 

He looks up at me, still wide-eyed and speechless. 

I can feel presences around us in the darkness but I’m too angry to care. 

“How could you?!” 

“What have I done?” 

Ours is the most infuriating fight I’ve ever had. He’s struggling with his lies, I’m struggling to express that this is about breaking the terms of our deal without giving away to the producers and crew that we had a deal and so trying to make it sound personal to them while also trying to make it clear to Ciaran that this is  _ not _ personal — it’s just about the deal. 

“But Emhyr, I didn’t! I didn’t do anything! Nothing has changed!” 

“Look at those pictures! Do they look innocent to you?! This is about trust, Ciaran! How can I still trust you? How can I believe… that… your feelings haven’t changed when so many of the other couples have broken up and reformed?” I ask him, stumbling over the words in my confusion. 

“But I’m not like them! I want to stay with you!” 

“For how much longer? Nevermind. Do what you want. You’re free. Save Iorveth. You obviously care more about him!” 

“Emhyr!” 

My first instinct is to storm off to my room — specifically to my bathroom — to get away from all these damn cameras, but then I remember my room is full of  _ his _ things so I go to the least popular cabana where there’s only one camera that I know of and I resolutely turn my back to it. 

Eventually, however, the night air gets cooler and I know I’ll have to go back to my room eventually. I’ve mastered myself enough that I risk stopping by the main cabana to get some water. 

Most of the others are in there having dinner and it’s clear from the looks they give that they’ve somehow all sided with Ciaran. 

I grab a couple of bottles of water and stalk off to my room. 

The bed feels empty without him, even though he never took up much space in it. I try to convince myself I’m more comfortable without him. 

Even in the middle of the night, hours later, I can make out the details of our room in the darkness — all the corsages he pinned to a hand towel by the mirror, his sunscreen, his comb. He hasn’t picked up any of his things and I wonder what he’ll do about brushing his teeth. 

No doubt Iorveth has plenty of charcoal toothpaste to go around, perhaps he also has a spare bamboo toothbrush. 

I try to turn my mind to what my next move should be to stay in the game, but I can’t stay focussed on that. 

This is exactly the situation I wanted to avoid — being abandoned just before the finish line like a defective item. Worse, even, since Pavetta at least didn’t give the impression she was trading me in for a newer model. 

But I can’t blame Ciaran. He just wants to win, he made that clear from the start. I was a fool to think our agreement would survive a better offer. And Ciaran was always going to get a better offer — sweet and beautiful as he is — and I can’t even blame him for preferring Iorveth who is young and adventurous. 

No, it’s my own fault for letting myself trust  _ — believe _ — him. 

The next morning I consider skipping breakfast altogether but after a night’s insomnia and agitation, I’m desperate for coffee, any coffee. 

Foltest, who is sitting alone, nods slightly and I take my coffee over to his table. 

He makes a sympathetic remark, as if we’re somehow in the same boat, equally blameless. 

“Where’s Roche?” 

Foltest shrugs. 

“Not sure. He was sitting right here then suddenly stood and said he had something to do and just left, muttering something about an idiot.” 

I wonder which of us Roche meant. 

Foltest and I are trying to drown our sorrows in nostalgic remembrances of a better class of coffee when Roche returns, face like a thundercloud. 

“You are an idiot,” he enunciates clearly, looking me straight in the eye. 

Well, at least that answers my earlier question. 

“Come with me,” he continues tersely before I’ve even had time to react. 

I follow him out to one of the cabanas, stopping short when I recognise the figure leaning, arms crossed, against one of the posts . 

“I don’t want to talk to him.” 

“If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t want to talk to you either.” 

I grit my teeth and follow Roche. 

“I suppose Ciaran slept in your room?” I ask when we reach Iorveth. 

He shrugs carelessly. 

“Yes.” 

I’ve asked for it but even so I can’t help a snarl. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Iorveth mutters with a pitying expression. 

I can’t help an angry sneer. 

“Is that what you really what you asked me here to tell me?” 

“I didn’t ask you to come here,” Iorveth shrugs then indicates Roche, “He did.” 

“Come on, Iorveth,” Roche growls, “Out with it.” 

“Fine,” Iorveth sighs, throwing up his hands, “Although I still think he doesn’t deserve an explanation. Look, Emhyr, I don’t know what Vilgefortz conned you into believing, but there’s nothing going on between Ciaran and I. We’re just friends.” 

“I saw the pictures.” 

Iorveth shrugs, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t deny we’ve walked along the beach together and chatted in the shade, even shared a smoothie or two. But what do you expect? There’s fuck all else to do on this beach.” 

He has a point there, although I’m not about to admit it. 

“Like I said, we’re friends. Good friends. I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. Long enough that if something was ever going to happen then it would have happened by now. He’s just not my type. And I’m not his,” he says, looking me over in vague disgust, “Inexplicably, you are.” 

“Thanks,” I say ironically. 

Iorveth holds his hands up. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way but I’d rather drink nuclear wastewater. You’re not as bad as Foltest but you’re soft, overvalued, entitled, arrogant, and old. But,” he shrugs, “That’s what Ciaran wants. Apparently. And while he had it he was happier than I’d ever seen him and now... he’s heartbroken. Nothing has consoled him.” 

He’s gone dead serious. 

“You don’t deserve him, and he deserves better. But he wants  _ you _ .” 

I waver.

“Where is he?” 

“How should I know?” Iorveth shrugs, “I’ve been here with you.” 

He shoves off the wooden beam. 

“Don’t hurt him again.” 

And with that he leaves. 

“You really had better not upset Ciaran again,” Roche remarks, “Iorveth will skin you alive if you do. He thinks this is all a mistake as it is. Took me half the night to convince him to talk to you.” 

“I never asked you to,” I grumble ungratefully. 

“He’s right,” Roche remarks, “You are an idiot. You know you’re jealous and you still let Vilgefortz play you like a child.” 

“How do you know it’s not true?” I demand, his disdain and Iorveth’s rekindling my frustration, “They’ve been friends years and even Iorveth must have accepted that Saskia is out of reach.” 

“Maybe he has, although I don’t think so, but that doesn’t change that she’s his taste, not Ciaran. I’ve seen them together, they’re like brothers. And Ciaran is crazy about you, and you about him. Your pride is hurt, mine would be too, but if you give him up because of this cheap manipulation, you’ll only look an even bigger fool. Go to him and apologize.” 

I stare at Roche a moment. I cannot make this man out. 

“Why are you helping me?” 

Roche shrugs. 

“Now you’ll owe me.” 

He’s right. In my heart I’ve known all along that I was being manipulated, but it was easier to pretend that the causes were external and someone else’s fault — Vilgefortz’, Iorveth’s, or Ciaran’s — that to admit any failing of my own. 

Yes, I have my failings and Vilgefortz has played on them. He sat on these pictures for days and waited until the day before the penultimate elimination round to detonate the bomb of my pride and jealousy. And I may have deserved it, but Ciaran did not. He did not deserve any of this. 

“I’m going to rip Vilgeforz’s throat out with my teeth.” 

Roche nods fatalistically. 

“I’ll make sure you get the best defence.” 

Geralt is the first person I meet on leaving the cabana. 

“Where’s Ciaran?” 

“Went that way,” Geralt nods vaguely southwards, “Looked like he wanted to be alone.” 

I turn away from him, mulling over his words. 

My Ciaran’s never wanted to be alone. He has never preferred being anywhere to being with me, even if he did nothing more than curl up beside me in silence. When he went without me it was only because I was tired of playing volleyball and because I have no patience for Yen’s complaints, Triss’ gossip, and Iorveth’s brooding. I’m the one who needed more space, but never from him. I’ve never minded him. 

Now he’s away from me — maybe angry, maybe upset — and I can’t stand it. 

I glance up at the coastline towards which I’m heading, wondering where he is. 

Maybe… Just maybe I know where he is. Maybe he’s gone back to me, in a way. 

Lengthening my stride, I make for our nook and soon enough I can make out his silhouette hunched over the jutting rocks, his back turned to the camera crewmen that surround him at a distance, trying to capture his distress. 

I want to drive them away from him and some of my anger at them bleeds into my voice when I call out his name. More a bark than a call, even to my own ears. 

Alarmed, Ciaran jumps to his feet, looks my way and instinctively takes a few steps back away from me. 

The whole world goes still and silent, everything but Ciaran is frozen as he loses his footing, unbalances, slips and falls, grazing his head on rocks before toppling over and disappearing beneath the waves. 

Two cameramen and a PA drop everything and take a running dive into the water. 

I sprint along the coast to where I know the current is taking him, then plunge ahead of the dark head bobbing just beneath the surface. 

A shock of cold runs up my arms, slams into my chest, the back of my neck, before curling across my shoulders and back. But then, reaching out, I catch hold of Ciaran and as I draw his slender body close, I feel a flash of burning heat before I’m flooded with icy relief. 

Ciaran is light and limp in my arms when I haul us both onto the shore where the crew crowds around. 

He’s bleeding but not breathing so I gently tip him onto his side, barking at the others to call for help and demanding why it isn’t here yet while I work to get the water out of Ciaran’s lungs. 

Soon he’s spluttering and I gather him up, mindful of the gash on his head. 

“Emhyr?” 

He’s so cold and I can barely make out the flutter of his heartbeat. 

“It’s ok, Ciaran, you’re ok. We’re ok. I’m sorry about everything, it was all my fault.” 

He clings and blinks up at me, and I have to gently pry each of his fingers from my went shirt when the paramedics arrive. He’s docile, confused, and his gaze stays trained on me while they fuss over him, anxious when he’s loaded into the ambulance, only settling again when I climb in and sit by him, taking his hand. 

“Will you stay with me?” he chips, blinking. 

“For as long as you want.”

* * * * *

Before letting me in to see him, the doctors warn me that though Ciaran is well and recovering nicely, he’s still shaken. 

Vilgefortz wanted to film our first meeting but backed down when he saw that I was prepared to smash his cameras to stop that happening. We finally compromise with a five minute grace period. 

I let myself into the hospital room, quiet in case Ciaran’s sleeping. 

He’s awake and looks like a tumbled angel among the white bedding and the bandage on his head over which his dark curls spill, soft and full, unhindered by sea or styling products. 

He watches apprehensively as I approach but doesn’t flinch or move away as I perch on the edge of the bed. 

“How do you feel?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He manages a shaky smile, his eyes filling with tears, and when I reach out to stroke his face gently, he rubs his cheek against my hand. 

“Emhyr, I’m sorry I made you angry—.” 

“No, I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. If I had seen you with Iorveth like that I would have thought nothing of it.” 

I sigh and drag a hand over my face as if that will help wipe away my confusion. 

“But when Vilgefortz showed me those pictures... I saw them from the outside… I only saw what others would see.” 

“But I shouldn’t have let it happen. It was the one thing you asked,” Ciaran shakes his head sadly. 

“You are free to have friends and spend time with them. And it was pride that made me act like that, not jealousy. I believed it because I couldn’t see any reason why you wouldn’t prefer Iorveth to me.” 

“Emhyr—!” 

“No, let me say it all. I know I’m difficult, inflexible, sometimes unpleasant. I thought you put up with me because you had no choice. I wouldn’t let myself believe that someone could be attracted to me despite those things. I burned myself believing that once before. I promised myself I wouldn’t get attached to you either, that this was just business,” I say, reaching up to twine a curl around my index, “But somewhere along the line all of that changed. Vilgefortz confronting me like that… I thought it had all happened again and that… That made me realise that it isn’t just business. Not for me.” 

Ciaran’s tears have spilled onto his cheeks but he’s smiling, bright as sunlight dancing on water. 

The door opens and the camera crew creep in, quiet as they can. 

“I spoke to Iorveth,” I tell Ciaran, ignoring them. 

Ciaran’s pretty face creases in anxiety. 

“No, no, we didn’t fight — although he did call me an idiot, among other things. But he told me that you were unhappy… Were you?” 

Ciaran nods and blinks, setting more tears rolling down his face. Not sure why I’m surprised that he’s a pretty crier, his eyes barely redden and they sparkle like diamonds. Vilgefortz is getting his money’s worth. 

“I thought I’d lost you and that it was my own stupid fault,” he explains tearfully, “We were so happy on our outing but after that — and even before that — I neglected you, I knew I had. For Yen and for Iorveth and for a million other reasons. And you were so patient, you never seemed to mind, you just trusted me, and I took that trust for granted.” 

I pull him into my arms and kissed the top of his head. 

“You’re generous with your time and friendship, and I wouldn’t want you to be any other way. 

Ciaran makes a muffled sound of happiness against my throat then tips his head up for a kiss, which I give him, long and lingering, playing to the cameras as I know he’d want me to. 

“So I’m forgiven?” I smile at him, “Even though I’m stubborn, proud, jealous and mercurial?” 

Ciaran smiles happily, eyelashes glittering with teardroplets, and pulls me down for another kiss. 

* * * * *

Our return to the beach is met with warmth and an enthusiasm that wipes the thought of the upcoming elimination round from everyone’s minds even as Ciaran offers me his rose. Reality comes crashing down immediately after when Saskia picks up her rose and hands it to her short friend, leaving both Foltest and Iorveth at loose ends. 

Maria Louisa hands her rose to Morvran who accepts it with a charmed smile, which leaves Foltest looking even grimmer. 

His expression lightens, however, when Roche picks up his rose. 

Roche stares at the rose in his hand intently, while Foltest, Triss and Geralt stare at  _ him _ like they’re each trying to impose their will on him telepathically, then he finally looks up, having apparently reached a decision. 

“Iorveth, will you accept this rose?” 

Geralt blanches and Foltest gasps like a dying sprat while Iorveth blinks at Roche a few times. 

“I… Yeah, I will.” 

Foltest stares as Roche pins the corsage to Iorveth’s shirt, as if unable to comprehend that he has finally lost. Until next time, anyway. 

Geralt looks almost panicked as Dandelion asks him to make his choice. 

He takes the rose from the proffered platter automatically and just stares and stares at both Triss and Yen in turn, seeming to not hear Dandelion’s repeated prompts and the final warning that if he doesn’t immediately make a choice then it will be forfeit.

“Foltest, Triss, Yen, Geralt,” Dandelion says solemnly, barely holding onto his composure, “I’m sorry to say that since none of you have a partner tonight, you are all eliminated.” 


	7. The Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! This was really bizarre but a lot of fun to write. Thanks to everyone who read, left kudos or comments! <3   
Enjoy!

**— THE FINALE —**

We survivors go to the main cabana for a drink and to regroup after the shock eliminations, but the full effect doesn’t settle in until the next morning when we meet up there again for breakfast. 

The cabana is full of the stillness that follows a typhoon — all the life and noise blown away. 

Maria Louisa, Morvran and Ciaran soon fill the air with cheerful sounds as they chatter and list the breakfast options. 

All of the recent tension has gone and even Roche and Iorveth are peaceful. We all have breakfast at the same table, discussing the previous evening’s events, some speculating that Vilgefortz overplayed his hand by pushing Geralt to choose between Triss and Yen too soon. 

That may be, although Geralt might never have been ready to choose, he’s never been decisive in that way. And Vilgefortz can’t have foreseen that Roche would end up choosing neither Foltest nor Triss, and that he would, in fact, choose Iorveth. 

Roche seems perfectly comfortable with his decision and throughout breakfast his gaze often alights on Iorveth. Iorveth, meanwhile, often looks like he means to say something but each time seems dissuaded by Roche’s concentrated look of contentment. 

They haven’t discussed what happened yet, that much is clear, and after breakfast, when we all drift apart, they walk off down the beach together, no doubt to do just that and they couldn’t do it in a better atmosphere than the one that reigns today. 

Ciaran looks deliriously happy. 

After the events of yesterday we would have spent today together regardless of whatever else was going on, but with so many of his friends gone and with Iorveth busy with Roche, Ciaran is no longer under any mental pressure. 

We go back to our usual nook and settle into one of the beanbags. 

Ciaran’s been given a clean bill of health but he still has to wear a bandage to protect his head wound and he’s still recovering from the shock and mustn’t have any upsets. 

“Do you really think Roche and Iorveth can work?” he asks, wrinkling his pretty nose, “Why did Roche pick Iorveth, of all people?” 

“I’m not sure, but Iorveth’s argumentative — they’re both argumentative — and I can see how that might be attractive to Roche. And to Iorveth. After all, Saskia’s opinionated, that’s one of the things Iorveth likes about her.” 

“Yes, but  _ Roche _ ?” Ciaran wrinkles his nose again, “Besides, they don’t argue, they’re at war.” 

“Hmm,” I hum into Ciaran’s hair, “Roche might be more open-minded than we think. He must realise he has no chance at all with Iorveth if he’s not willing to at least hear his arguments. There’s passion there, if nothing else, more than there was with Saskia.” 

Ciaran still looks horrified. 

“Besides,” I continue, rubbing the wrinkles out of his forehead, “He convinced Iorveth to convince me to apologize to you. I know you don’t like Foltest but Roche was a loyal friend to him and he’s been a good friend to me.” 

Ciaran looks appalled at this but accepts a soothing kiss. 

“Fine,” he mutters, cuddling close, “I’ll give him a chance.” 

* * * * *

There is a special sweetness to waking up with Ciaran in my arms. Our one night apart felt like fifty and it lingers in my memory as an unbearable separation. 

We were complacent and nearly paid for it. We’re lucky to still be here, the last of the original couples, who seemed so secure mere weeks ago. 

When Ciaran starts to shift I kiss his hair and he soon turns to me. A tentative smile instead of the usual beaming one, and his wide hazel eyes are gently searching. 

Barring more unforeseens, we’re all likely to make it to the finale and the next few days go by in games and laughter. Morvran and Maria Louisa are consummate hosts and Ciaran has warmed even to Roche. Saskia and her new paramour are still wrapped up in each other but these days the other six of us come together for breakfast, lunch and dinner for what start to feel like family meals — Ciaran the center of attention, Roche and Iorveth still bickering, but lazily, almost affectionately. 

Ciaran still spends time with Iorveth but now that there are fewer demands on his time and attention we’ve reverted back to snorkelling, making virgin cocktails, and other shared activities. Ciaran has started taking pictures again — so many pictures — of Morvran and Maria Louisa posing together as the ideal power couple, of Roche and Iorveth whenever he can catch them unawares, and countless ones of us, of me. 

We’re happy. 

The fight and the reconciliation have cleared the air and the confusion created by our dual relationship has dissipated. 

Almost. 

Recently I’ve noticed him looking at me strangely, thoughtful and serious, and I’ve seen him frown slightly at the orchid that blooms over our heads. 

Something is worrying him but he’s reluctant to address it, either because he’s worried we’ll fall into another argument or because it’s something he doesn’t want the crew and cameras to overhear. Our relationship feels more solid than ever but I don’t want to test it yet and I don’t want to force Ciaran into a confession he’s not ready to make. 

“I’ll have to get one of these,” Ciaran notes one evening as he puts the sonic toothbrush away. 

“If you want, or you could just keep using mine.” 

“Oh yes,” he chirps in surprise as he slips into bed beside me. 

He goes on to chatter happily about some fish he and Iorveth found caught in a rock pool, but that slip has revealed his frame of mind. 

The fight cleared the air, but we did not say all that needed to be said — partly because the cameras arrived but also because, having just rescued our past, it was too soon to talk about the future. 

But Ciaran has questions. 

I’ve thought about his future — our future — but I’ve never discussed it with him and I can see now that he’s wondering if we have a future. 

I can see it in his hesitations, in the stops and starts of his once spontaneous reactions, in his careful compliance with my wishes, following where he once would have led, accepting ideas instead of suggesting them. I can see it in the way he avoids mentioning the finale, nevermind what would follow it. 

I hate seeing him like this. 

This is my fault, of course, since I allowed myself to be tricked by that snake, Vilgefortz, and let doubt and mistrust into our little eden. 

Until we’re alone and off this damn island, there is little I can say to reassure him that I do want a future with him and even less I can do to convince him that I’m not just saying this to secure the outcome and narrative I’ve admitted to being after. 

Unless… 

* * * * *

A diamond engagement ring is a bad investment. It devalues by half before you’ve even touched the receipt for it. 

Turning one of the engagement rings on offer in my hand, I seriously reconsider what I’m doing. Not the substance of it — I am certain about my feelings for Ciaran — but the practicalities. These are tackier than most — light on carats, heavy on diamond dust. 

Ciaran, with his minimalist tastes and marked preference for portable wealth, would probably prefer to have his carats concentrated into one large stone on a simple band, but there is nothing in that vein available here. 

No matter, he can choose one for himself when we leave. A coloured diamond would suit him, though he may prefer a colourless one that will be more recognizably an engagement ring. 

I finally choose the least offensive and the small jeweller’s box burns a hole in my pocket as I lead Ciaran up to the secluded cabana overlooking the sea where I’ve arranged a candlelit dinner for the two of us on the eve of the finale, ostensibly as an apology for the fight and the accusations that precipitated it. 

Ciaran is a little embarrassed. He’d rather forget it ever happened, but he has dressed up for the occasion in a T-shirt with a sequined bow tie and buttons printed onto it, and charcoal ‘dress shorts’. 

His eyes light up when he sees the setup, however, and as we eat and drink and talk he becomes more like his vivacious self. 

After dessert, I school my features into a serious expression and cover his hand with mine. 

“Ciaran, these last few days have been the happiest I can remember, but there are things we’ve left unsaid and I think it was time we addressed them.” 

Ciaran glances in the direction of the cameras nervously. 

“Can’t it wait?” 

“I had thought so, but I’ve waited as long as I can.” 

Pulling the jeweller’s box from my pocket, I get onto one knee before him, smiling inside at the astonishment on his face. 

“I wish I could claim to be wise enough to know what I had before I lost it. I’m not. I’m an idiot. But an idiot who can learn. And I won’t risk losing you again,” I tell him, opening up the jeweller’s box to reveal the ring within, watching his eyes go wide, “I can’t promise our life together will be a thornless rose, but even if I have to bleed to do it, I will hold onto you, onto us, with all my strength.” 

Ciaran stares, speechless. 

He was not expecting this, my long experience with business negotiations has taught me to keep plans and feelings under wraps. 

And he knows the rules of the game. The rose is mine to give this week, I gain nothing by proposing now and that if he refuses me now I will lose my place here. I put myself at risk for no gain. 

Of course, the entire point is to put myself at risk for him and suddenly I break out in a cold sweat at the thought that Ciaran might refuse me. 

“Really?” he finally chirps, “You’re sure?” 

This is it, this is my one chance to convince him. I have to show him the truth and my heart and lungs seize up with the effort. 

“With all my heart, with all I have, for as long as you want me. If you want me,” I add, to remind him that I’m still on bended knee, waiting for an answer. 

“Yes!” he laughs, eyes filling with happy tears. 

He tugs me to my feet and watches in awe as I slip the ring onto his finger. 

A perfect fit — it has that going for it at least. 

Then Ciran looks up at me with tremulous eyes, everything in him begging for the kiss I give him once I’ve swept him up in my arms. 

Ciaran laughs as his sandals go flying and huddles in my arms like he hasn’t been in them in weeks, arms tight around my neck. 

Then a whisper, almost inaudible even though he drops it right into my ear. 

“Do we have to get married here?” 

I laugh against neck and kiss his ear before answering as quietly as I can so the microphones won’t pick the words up. 

“We’ll pick our own island.” 

* * * * *

Despite things being as settled as they seem, the air hums in excitement in the lead up to the finale evening. 

Ciaran is not wearing his ring because he wants to announce the engagement to the others at the ceremony this evening. 

Iorveth keeps throwing speculative looks Roche’s way while Roche’s expression gives nothing away. 

They are the big question mark of the evening and most of the attention is on them as we make our way along the beach to where Dandelion is waiting. 

Saskia’s beau offers her a rose, grinning from ear to ear when she accepts it. 

Iorveth picks up his corsage and fiddles with it a moment. Beside me, Ciaran catches his breath, while Roche stands there, looking grim, as he has a tendency to do. This is a man who has faced far more difficult trials without losing his cool and yet there he stands, with a nervous twitch in his jaw, as he waits to see if he’s done enough to hold onto Iorveth. 

“Roche… Vernon…” Iorveth uncharacteristically stumbles, “Will you accept this rose?” 

“I will,” Roche immediately answers, probably worried Iorveth might change his mind. 

He takes a few steps forward to prompt Iorveth into pinning the corsage onto his shirt, then when Iorveth stares at him, still looking a little startled by his own actions, Roche brackets Iorveth’s face in his hands and gives him a hard, long kiss. 

Morvran is next and though he does offer Maria Louisa a rose, there’s no marriage proposal, no suggested engagement, and if she’s disappointed by this, Maria Louisa is too polished to show it. 

Ciaran, who has spent the evening on my arm, squeezing it during the high points, finally releases me so I can take my place by Dandelion when my turn comes. 

“You’re looking confident tonight, Emhyr,” Dandelion winks, “And a little bird told me you have reason to.” 

“I do,” I reply with the obligatory grin, taking my corsage from the platter, “Because I have already been accepted.” 

And with this I hold up the corsage, showing off the dazzling ring that dangles from it as Ciaran steps forward to accept it, wreathed in smiles, eyes sparkling with happy tears, among the sounds of surprise and delight from the other couples. 

I pull him in for a sound kiss then move away to face him. 

“Ciaran, will you accept this rose and my hand?” 

Ciaran nods happily, in tears and speechless. 

There’s applause from them as I free the ring from the corsage and slip it onto Ciaran’s finger, then kiss his hand before holding it up for them to see. 

“Are you happy?” 

Ciaran looks up at me with sparkling eyes. 

“Yes.” 


	8. After Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And an Epilogue. Enjoy! <3

**— AFTER PARADISE —**

“Well,” Dandelion grins expansively, “You look happy.” 

We have been happy and now that the final episode of the show has aired, Ciaran can fill him and the audience in on what our life has been in the months since we finished shooting the show. 

Ciaran and I were one of the favourite couples on the show and the media attention has been deafening. Officially, the show launched the portmanteau “Emhran”, which was ignored wholesale by the public who instead adopted #2sugars — a conflation of our respective stereotypes on the show, ‘sugar baby’ and ‘sugar daddy’. Ciaran loves it and appends it to everything, even his postcards and wedding invitations. 

Ciaran is deliriously happy to have the secrecy finally lifted. He’s been so frustrated at having to hold back the details of the wedding he’s been planning and not being able to post the thousands of pictures he’s taken of every last inch of the apartment. 

I took on the responsibility of planning the honeymoon given I don’t trust Ciaran not to choose a place that relies on a desalination plant for water simply because he likes the bathtub there or for the design of the swimming pool. 

Ciaran and Dandelion chatter happily. We’re the last couple and probably a relief for Dandelion after an evening that opened with Triss and Yen presenting a united and hostile front against him. 

Some amateurish but explicit videos of him with Geralt exploded all over the internet while the show was still airing — to Vilgefortz’ unmitigated fury — and as far as anyone knows they’re still together. 

Yen’s been a bit cagey about her private life but then again, that’s the way she is. Triss claims to have made her peace with what happened on the island and has started dating one of Geralt’s closest friends. 

Foltest has completely recovered from having been jilted by every possible partner, and enthusiastically promotes the next show he’s going to feature in,  _ The Real Playboys of Vizima _ . 

Saskia and her shortboard boyfriend are away climbing Mount Gorgon as a fundraising event for Save the Earth and they do their segment live via videolink from base camp — a franchise first. 

Morvran and Maria Louisa are still together and while formally the couple is still exactly in the place it was on the island, they are looking forward for the media ban to be lifted so they can finally start attending events together, something that was always going to be at the core of their relationship. 

Iorveth and Roche are also still together and have already put down a deposit on an apartment they’ll move into now they can make their relationship public. 

Every week the two of them came to my apartment, identities concealed by baseball caps and sunglasses, to watch each episode of the show with Ciaran and I. 

Ciaran is delighted at seeing Iorveth more often and has warmed considerably to Rche — though he still keeps a close eye on him for any sign he may become unworthy of Iorveth. 

I’ve offered Roche a job with my company, which would put him into less direct conflict with Iorveth’s organisation and similar ones, but he’s being aggressively headhunted by several human rights specialist firms. Iorveth has spent weeks making the argument that fighting for the underdog is the greater challenge and the last time Roche and I spoke he seemed ready to cave. 

They’re invited to the wedding and I know Ciaran’s hoping seeing us marry will give them ideas. 

“We’re so happy, aren’t we, Emhyr?” 

Ciaran turns to me, eyes sparkling. 

“Yes. We really are.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
